


firsts

by buu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: First Time, M/M, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 15:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21079259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buu/pseuds/buu
Summary: It's embarrassing to admit. Felix has never even told Sylvain that he'd been his first kiss; he can't admit that he's never slept with anyone before, man or woman. Felix has never held more than a fleeting interest in anyone before, with the exception of Sylvain, but even those feelings had been pushed so far down in the pit of Felix's stomach he's sure he'd given himself an ulcer. He can't admit to this.





	firsts

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this, got 2.4k words in, didnt like it anymore, finished it and here it is take it or leave it i havent written in a long time! there is no plot and no relevance to any timeline although it probably takes place post-timeskip
> 
> i pray for these boys' eternal happiness

Felix has never done this before.

It's not that he's never had the chance, simply that he's never had the interest. At least, not that he's been able to admit to up until now, hesitantly standing in the middle of his childhood friend's room, candlelight dim and flickering against the dingy walls. He has no idea if this is meant to be romantic lighting, or if it's all that they have, but the fact that he's not necessarily on full display makes things a little easier, makes the uncertain sway of his hips and dip of his shoulders less noticeable. Felix isn't one to be _timid_, but that's what he feels like now, all pent-up energy and nervous movements.

“Are you sure about this?”

The voice makes him jump nearly out of his skin, and the scowl on his face is vivid enough to be seen even in the uneven lighting. Stalking forward, Felix uses the momentum to pretend that he's familiar with how this works, familiar with the idea of shedding his clothes and his self-imposed walls and letting someone see him at his most vulnerable. In any other situation, it would be a disgusting idea. He'd wrinkle his nose, maybe sneer a bit, storm out of the room with the slam of a heavy door.

Now, though, he doesn't want to do any of that.

“Yes, I'm sure,” and he is. He's never done this before, but he's sure he wants to.

The thing is, Sylvain has always been his first. First friend, first true bare-knuckles fight, first crush. First kiss, more recently. There's nobody in the world Felix is more comfortable being around, although that's not saying much; even around Sylvain, it's hard for him to open up. But the thing is, Sylvain knows this, and somehow, he's willing to gently pry and pry and pry until Felix opens up, and... that's sort of what Felix needs. To know that the person he is opening up to really and truly wants to see that self that he's buried down in there, somewhere.

“Have you ever known me to do something I don't want to do?” Felix continues, and while he's close, he's still too far away for Sylvain to touch. Too far away to reach out and touch Sylvain. If he does, that will be it; no second-guessing, and the fear of rejection still sings in his chest despite the knowledge that Sylvain is the one person who wouldn't do it to him.

Sylvain laughs, and even though Felix can hear the tension at the edges of it, it makes his shoulders relax, just a bit. His fingers uncurl from his palms. It's one of the genuine laughs, the ones Sylvain always reserves for his friends, the people who have known him the longest. None of those girls, the ones that make Felix's blood boil with carefully-masked jealousy, none of them have heard it. He thinks about that, and moves forward a little more.

It's enough. Felix's movement is an unspoken invitation, one that Sylvain somehow reads, and there's a hand on the side of his arm, sliding down to graze warm fingers over the bones of Felix's wrist.

Goddess, he's a coward, isn't he? Sylvain is right there, sitting on his bed with his knees pressed together like he's just as nervous about all of this. But... he's done this before. Felix knows; he's seen Sylvain come into class covered in hickeys, has heard about his various conquests time and time again. But then again, he hasn't done _this_ before, has he? Because Felix isn't one of those girls, the ones taken in by Sylvain's fake charm and boyish good looks. No, he'd been unfortunately taken in by the real charm, the wide smiles and warm hands and Sylvain's undying loyalty to his friends.

Felix sighs, and then Sylvain holds out his arms, and he sighs again. A little louder, this time, fake-exasperation, before sinking into Sylvain's arms, settling on his lap, knees on either side of his thighs.

This is okay. They've kissed like this before, Sylvain's hand on his back, in his hair, on his chin. And Sylvain is unfortunately very, very good at kissing, which is something Felix will only tell him in the heat of the moment, when they're both too distracted to save words for later teasing. Felix is sure he's terrible at it, has been sure since the first time he'd dragged Sylvain down and angrily crashed their lips together after a particularly harrowing battle, but Sylvain always looks at him all starry-eyed and tells Felix how _good_ he is, and Felix hates how much he actually wants to believe it.

He presses his forehead to Sylvain's shoulder, warmth seeping through the front of his thin undershirt. It's threadbare, as most things are nowadays, but Felix has found that the thinner the clothes, the better it is to be warmed by the body curled up against your own. Sylvain's, of course. It's always Sylvain.

Sylvain's cheek rubs against Felix's hair, and Felix might make a joke about doglike obedience if his nerves weren't already worn thin.

“I'm fine,” Felix assures, voice muffled. Sylvain smells good, as always. “It's just--”

He cuts himself off, abrupt, almost biting down on his own tongue. Being comfortable sometimes has the disadvantage of making him a little too honest, but Sylvain's already caught onto the words, and tugs at them more.

“Just? Are you really, absolutely certain you want to do this? We don't have to. I'm... I'm more than happy to just hold you like this, honest,” he says, and Felix hates how self-sacrificing the man is. He's always been like this. At the same time, though, Felix believes him, knows that when Sylvain says that he's fine with just the kissing, with the holding, with the bed-sharing, he truly means it. To think such an infamous playboy would give up fucking for Felix.

That's what he's never done before.

It's embarrassing to admit. Felix has never even told Sylvain that he'd been his first kiss; he can't admit that he's never slept with anyone before, man or woman. Felix has never held more than a fleeting interest in anyone before, with the exception of Sylvain, but even those feelings had been pushed so far down in the pit of Felix's stomach he's sure he'd given himself an ulcer. He can't admit to this.

“Forget it.” Felix pushes himself back and looks at Sylvain properly. Red hair curls around his face, and Felix finds his palms on Sylvain's cheeks, holding him still. He can do this. He _will_ do it, for fuck's sake. He's been through much more than simply taking a man for the first time. He _wants_ to do it.

Sylvain melts easily into the kiss Felix initiates, and at least he's gotten a lot of practice at this. He's quick to slide his tongue over Sylvain's lower lip, still slightly bruised from an earlier encounter; a kiss stolen against a wall, in a crumbling alcove. He tastes good, wet and fresh and familiar, and Felix lets himself get lost for a moment in these simple movements, the slide of lips and tongues and the breath against his cheeks. Sylvain's hands are on his back, sliding just a bit lower, and Felix likes that, too. But then they stop, and he has to pause in the wonderful, wonderful kissing to pull back.

“Sylvain.” Felix's voice is breathier than he'd like, although he manages to keep the tone flat and even and unimpressed. “How are we supposed to do this if you won't even touch my ass?”

And Sylvain laughs at that, just as breathless as Felix feels, and even in the dim light he can see how red Sylvain's lips are. “I just want to make sure you're... you know, comfortable.”

Sylvain is really one of the only people who would care about Felix's comfort, which earns him another stinging kiss.

“I'm comfortable.” Felix shifts in Sylvain's lap, and feels his pulse spike—not unpleasantly—when he feels that Sylvain's cock is indeed beginning to stir underneath him. It's not like they haven't touched each other before, at least; Felix has grown increasingly familiar with handjobs, and while he's only taken Sylvain into his mouth once, none-too-gracefully, it was a nice encounter. Felix very much does not have a problem with Sylvain's more... intimate places.

He loops an arm around Sylvain's neck and shifts again, relishing the way Sylvain's breath catches in his throat. “You, on the other hand, seem as though you could stand to be a bit more comfortable.”

There's that sheepish look, the enticing way Sylvain bites his lip between his teeth. His eyes dart down to where Felix, too, is getting more than a little hard, and when their eyes meet again, Sylvain looks a lot less uncertain. A lot less hesitant.

A lot more determined.

It's embarrassing, the gasp that wrenches from Felix's throat when Sylvain's hands cup his ass a bit too roughly, but not in a way he dislikes. In fact, without thinking, Felix is pushing back, wanting more of that warms, more of those wide palms pressing against him and he thinks about where those fingers are going to go and—oh, he's suddenly feeling a lot less hesitant than he was initially. It must be all the blood rushing south, he reasons, already growing too warm under his thin clothes.

“Sylvain,” he all but growls, and then Sylvain's hands are moving again, fingers sliding up to slide _down_ the band of his pants, and Felix's head drops immediately to its favored place against Sylvain's shoulder. It's the roughness of the calluses, the heat of skin on skin, the way Sylvain's fingers dig in just enough to feel good.

“You're sure?” he asks, one more time, and this time Felix does growl.

“If you ask me again, I'll string you up in front of the monastery in your underclothes,” he threatens, as Sylvain's hands move lower.

“We can try that sort of play next time, if you want.” Sylvain's teasing voice is back, and his finger move again, kneading skin that Felix really isn't used to being touched. “Fine, then. If you're sure, the oil is... well, it's right here. Do—do you want me to—“

And there, Felix freezes. He knows Sylvain can feel the rigidity under his hands, against his body, because those hands suddenly stop moving and the touch becomes feather-light, hovering as though worried.

“Felix? You...”

Sylvain pauses, and Felix's blood is cold at the shift in tone. He knows he's been found out. This isn't something he can lie about, after all; Sylvain is bound to find out that he's... that he's never done this before the second Felix does something stupid while getting ready. He should have played it off, should have demanded Sylvain be the one to take care of him if he wanted to stick it up Felix's ass, but of course he's never been that smooth.

“You've never done this before.” There it is, breathed out against the top of Felix's head, where he's still got his forehead pressed to Sylvain's shoulder.

There's a long, long silence between the two of them, Felix still stiff-limbed and hardly breathing, before he releases it all in a _whoosh _of air.

“What of it?” he admits, and pretends that his hands don't twitch a little against Sylvain's shirt. Why is it that he can slice a man down without blinking, but the thought of Sylvain knowing this about him... of seeing him as less than, why is it so terrifying? “It doesn't matter. I've read up on it.”

Sort of. It's not as though the monastery has books of that sort in the library, and Felix has been too mortified at the idea of asking anyone else for help in procuring said materials. He's managed to glean a few things here and there, and had once stumbled upon something penned by Bernadetta, of all people, but that's really the extent of Felix's knowledge.

The silence continues to stretch, though, until Felix finally lifts his head, ready to fix Sylvain with the most severe glare he can muster.

Only, he's met with a look on Sylvain's face that he's never seen before.

It's not unpleasant, nor is it bad. It doesn't make Felix's stomach curl in self-doubt, but rather something hot and low. It sits somewhere on the edge of awe and what Felix would almost describe as reverence, and he just knows the color is blooming up the curve of his neck, over his face, to the tips of his ears. He manages to snap out a _what?_ before finally Sylvain starts speaking again.

“You'd really let me be your first?” Sylvain is a colossal dumbass, Felix decides, but the fingers of his hands stop their unruly trembling.

“Are you stupid? It's not that I'm letting you, like it's some sort of favor.” These words, for once, are honest, spoken without the mask of hostility that Felix so often wears, so they come out awkward and uncertain. “I want you to. I—I've not wanted to do this with anyone else, so of course you'd be the first.”

It's shocking, the way the room tilts and spins, jarring and disorienting how Felix is suddenly on his back, facing the worn ceiling of Sylvain's room. It's as though the breath has been knocked out of him, and he's not even managed to get it back before there are those lips—familiar, sweet, warm—breathing air back into him. _Oh_. And to think, he was worried about Sylvain not wanting to... to do this.

Maybe Felix is the colossal dumbass. Maybe they both are. Maybe that's why they fit together so well.

It's not just one kiss, and it lasts a long time. Or maybe it only feels like a long time; Sylvain's mouth on his lips, his cheeks, the edge of his nose, the curve of his jaw. Felix never does regain his breath, biting back a curse when wandering hands push the fabric of his shirt up to his collarbone, tug his arms up above his head to pull the shirt off. It's cold out, but in here, Felix is hot, arching up against the warm weight pressing him down. They've never done it quite like this before, and the excitement is getting to him.

When Sylvain pulls back, finally allowing Felix to breathe, he looks _wonderful_. Maybe it's the endorphins, but Felix feels drunk on the way Sylvain looks, hair mussed and cheeks pink and eyes shining and dark at the same time, aided by the flicker of the candles.

“I've never... with a man, I've never...” He trails off, at the same time trailing his fingers down Felix's chest, his stomach, down to the top of his pants. And Felix knows, because Sylvain has said as much to him, but still the thought makes Felix's stomach do flips.

Felix stifles a noise as Sylvain drags his pants down his hips, covering his face with his arm as his cock springs free against his stomach. He's already hard, but the breath Sylvain lets out encourages Felix to peek—just a bit—and then a bit more, as he sees Sylvain staring down at him. Those eyes, flickering rum, glance back up at Felix.

“It's easier on your stomach.” Sylvain's hands smooth down Felix's thighs as he talks, over old scars and soft skin. “But I... forgive me. I really want to see your face.”

And that has Felix blushing like a fool, like those girls he's always claimed to be nothing like. But really, how can Sylvain say such a thing with such a serious look? And his tone... Felix wheezes, and smacks the side of his arm.

“Stop trying to make me fall for you, idiot.” Felix's words are hot with embarrassment, nothing malicious, and Sylvain does nothing but grin all the way up to his eyes. For that moment, Felix really, truly feels more at ease than he has in ages.

And then those warm hands are pushing his thighs apart, and the noise Felix makes is truly disgruntled, a half-yelp, half-moan at the idea of being so exposed. He wants to reach down and cover himself, but Felix does have a shred of dignity left enough to know that would do absolutely nothing for his current situation, and so he just fists his hands in the sheets, willing his breathing to calm down. It's fine. It's Sylvain. This is nothing that he won't want to see, nothing that he hasn't seen before. It's just an unfamiliar feeling, vulnerability that Felix hasn't grown used to.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Sylvain says, and Felix barely has time to process it when he hears the sound of a bottle uncorking, and then there's something slick and _cold_ against a place he's never touched before.

It's not that Felix hadn't been aware that this is how it would go. He'd at least learned that much, has gleaned information from tavern conversations and the few books he's been able to find. It's just unexpected and shocking, to finally feel it in person—because he's dreamed of it, he has. And Sylvain, ever the gentleman (sometimes) rubs smooth circles in Felix's thigh before pressing something inside.

It's—it's his finger. Felix knows that's what it is, but it doesn't stop the noise from tearing its way out of his chest. It's not that he's in pain, it's just strange, _strange_, and Sylvain's finger pauses where it is, barely inside but feeling like so much.

“Are you alright?” comes the words Felix is expecting, and he nods, lip caught between his teeth. He mumbles around it, something that might be a _yes_.

“Get it over with,” he says, knuckles white in the sheets, thighs struggling to stay put. “I want you inside me, not your fucking finger.”

Although, he does also want Sylvain's finger. Felix wants all of him, but he's always been a man who reaches for goals, and the current goal is—

The finger presses in deeper, hot and thick and Felix really panics for a moment, wondering how the hell Sylvain's entire cock is going to fit inside him when even just a finger feels like so much. Felix should have tried this on his own first, he should have, he'd just... he'd been too horrified at the idea of doing it on his own, desperate and lovesick and foolish, so he hadn't. And a deeper, darker part of himself, one he doesn't want to admit to even now, had wanted Sylvain to be the very first to do it.

There's a murmur of noise above him, and Felix finally registers what Sylvain is saying, telling him to breathe and relax, and so Felix does the best he can. It helps that Sylvain doesn't move his finger for a moment, allowing Felix to get used to the feeling of something being where it normally wouldn't, before Sylvain starts to move, wiggling it this way and that, slow and methodical and almost fascinated. Felix chances a look at him, and sees Sylvain staring, dark-eyed, at the space between his legs.

And really? Felix feels more than a bit smug that _he's_ been able to make Sylvain focus like that.

This goes on for long enough that Felix's thighs relax, and he sort of starts to enjoy the rhythmic feeling of Sylvain's finger. And then the second one touches him, presses in slowly next to the first, and they do it all over again. Breathe and relax. Hand soft against his thigh. Fingers moving.

Felix loses track of time, focused only on the sensations being brought upon him by Sylvain's hands and the look on his face, when suddenly he's empty. Ah, has he really gotten so used to it that being empty is uncomfortable? Felix frowns, shifts his hips, and is about to sit up and ask what the _hell_ when he sees Sylvain's arms come up, shirt drawn over his head and tossed on the floor, and.

“You're gorgeous,” Felix blurts out, and he means it. Sylvain is a bit wider than he is, broad-shouldered and handsome. Felix lets his eyes drag over the scars—some he knows, others he doesn't—and notes the flush on Sylvain's face.

“Back at you,” is Sylvain's reply, as he shifts to tug his pants down. The join his shirt—and Felix's—on the floor.

Dazed, Felix watches as Sylvain slicks himself up, vaguely wondering if that's really going to fit. It must, right? They aren't the only two who have done this before, but Felix is finding it hard to think rationally. His fingers twitch against the sheets, empty and wanting until one of Sylvain's hands comes up and twines fingers with his own, familiar and comfortable. It's so intimate it makes Felix dizzy. He feels vulnerable, but it's... it's good, in a way. The other hand presses under Felix's thigh, pushes his knee up towards his chest.

And then, finally, Sylvain pushes in.

If Felix had thought it was a lot before, this is nothing compared to fingers. There's a sting, a stretch, the feeling of something hot and hard as Sylvain's cock enters him, and Felix bites his lip bloody, arching his back and clenching Sylvain's hand in his own. There's something wet at the edge of his eyes, but Felix doesn't have the capacity to pay attention to anything other than the feeling of Sylvain sinking into him.

“Sylvain,” he's gasping, over and over, along with a colorful slew of curses. But it's not enough for him to ask Sylvain to stop. No; Felix wants him to keep going. To go in and in and in, to split him apart until there's no way Sylvian will ever be able to disentangle himself from Felix's life. What a selfish thought, but Felix is beyond caring.

There's warm skin against his ass, suddenly, and with a hot exhale, Sylvain stops.

“You're okay?” His voice is just as shaky as Felix's insides, his head and his heart and his hands, and Sylvain looks down at him with such a mixture of emotions that Felix finds it hard to breathe. Or maybe that's just because he's got Sylvain inside him, crushing his internal organs. Either way, Felix nods, hair already a mess and half-loose from the tie he keeps it in.

Sylvain takes his free hand, the one not trapped in Felix's death grip, to reach up and push strands out of his face, behind his ears, before sneaking its way to the back of Felix's head and tugging.

Felix can feel the way his hair slips over his skin, against his neck and his shoulders, painting the sheets dark. He doesn't ask, but the way Sylvain looks at him, eyes just as dark, is enough for him not to need to.

“You're gorgeous.” Sylvain echos Felix's words from earlier, just as breathless.

“Back at you,” Felix says, half-smile on his face.

A hand comes down, steadies itself against Felix's hip, rough and soft at the same time. Sylvain's hips rock, draw back and forth, testing, and Felix lets his head tip back. He tastes copper on his lip from trying to muffle the sounds he makes, but Sylvain squeezes his hand, his hip, presses their foreheads together.

“You're always trying so hard.” His voice is as warm as the color of his eyes, as the candlelight casting yellow and red over his skin. “Let go, Felix. Let me take care of you.”

And he's asked so nicely. How could Felix refuse?

The first thrust has him rocking back on the bed, mouth open and a stream of noises trickling out of his throat. It's not loud, because Felix finds it hard to catch his breath as Sylvain moves, out and in and out, slow at first. It's small noises, punched out of his lungs, wordless sounds accompanied by Sylvain's name like it's the only thing he remembers. Maybe it is, right now, because that's all it feels like there is; him, and Sylvain. There's nothing else to worry about. Just the two of them, just Sylvain's lips against Felix's temple, his jaw, his throat. And there's Felix's name, too, breathed into his own skin, the shell of his ear.

Sylvain has always been a bit more eloquent, though.

“You're so good,” he says, even though Felix is doing nothing but lie on his back and spread his legs and make embarrassing sounds. He murmurs more things, too embarrassing and honest for Felix to repeat, and when Felix finds his words, he does the same, nails dragging down Sylvain's back, _good_ and _please_ and _more_. And then, after Sylvain moves a certain way, there are more noises, Felix's back arching and his hips rocking and his thighs trembling. He's so hard it hurts, so full and warm and _in love_ it's sort of pathetic.

He'll worry about that later.

The hand on his cock makes him keen, swearing and shaking and holding onto Sylvain's hand like his life depends on it. Sylvain tells him he's _tight_ and _hot_, calls his name again, shortens it to _Fe_ in a way he hasn't in years, and Felix comes all over his stomach, Sylvain's hand, the sheets. Sylvain continues to move, drags more moans out of Felix—tired, this time—before there's suddenly the loss of rhythm, and something warm and slick and _hot_ is suddenly filling all of Felix's thoughts, Sylvain's head buried in the crook of his neck.

They lay there for a moment, limbs limp, sweat-sticky and exhausted. Felix feels as though his throat is raw, like he's swallowed sand, and he's dirty and disgusting and lighter than he's been in longer than he can remember.

Sylvain pulls out, rolls to the side, and even though Felix can feel come inside and out, leaking against the sheets, he doesn't care. Sylvain drags Felix into his arms and against his chest, nosing his cheek and his ear and the side of his head. This is another thing Felix had worried about, secretly; lack of intimacy, Sylvain changing his mind and deciding that hadn't been what he wants after all.

Which doesn't seem to be the case.

“Felix,” Sylvain speaks against his skin, and Felix can feel the smile on his pulse point. “Felix.”

In return, he makes a noise, a sort of grunted hum, and raises a tired hand to press to Sylvain's back. No... that's not enough. Felix wills his arms to move, as numb as they feel, and wraps his arms around Sylvain. He squeezes, buries his own face against Sylvain's shoulder. He laughs.

It's not harsh or rude; it's unpolished, but it's genuine. It's happy. Felix is happy.

Sylvain laughs, too, arms holding Felix tight against him, and maybe they've both lost their minds momentarily. Felix doesn't care.

And in the morning, when Felix wakes up, groggy and sore and parched, hair a mess of tangles, Sylvain is still there, curled up against him. He groans out for _five more minutes, Felix_, so Felix knows he's aware, that he remembers. 

Felix gives in.


End file.
